Captain Tower remained silent, watching him. Reardon took a breath and went on.
“Secondly, they scarcely say two words before the knife comes out and Capp gets stabbed, and even those two words aren’t in any angry tones or loud tones, because nobody even knew they were arguing. Third, this girl that came in could have been checking to find out if Capp was there this particular day, fingering for the killer. Where does a person usually go for directions when they’re lost? Nine times out of ten to a gas station, and there’s one not very far away. Damned seldom to a bar, especially a crumb joint in that neighborhood. Fourth, that beard and jacket and glasses and all — that still sounds like a disguise to me, someone who didn’t want to be recognized, and there had to be a reason for that.” He shrugged. “It could have been because he didn’t want the witnesses to be able to identify him, but it could also have been because he wanted to get near enough to Capp without Capp getting suspicious.”
“You think Capp would have recognized him?”
“I don’t know; I merely say it seems to me to be a possibility.”
“He could have used a gun, you know — knocked Capp off from outside, without all that disguise business,” Captain Towers pointed out.
“He could have,” Reardon admitted, “but bullets are easier to trace than a knife the killer takes away with him. And actually, what real chance was he taking? TV on in a bar, everyone drinking and talking; hell, he wasn’t there ten seconds. And all anyone remembers is what he wants them to remember, a brush, sunglasses, a loud lumber jacket. He could have shed them and walked back in, five minutes later, and nobody would have known the difference.”
There were a few minutes of silence. Captain Tower reached into a drawer and brought out a cigar. He lit it, rolling it in his thick fingers, puffing it into life. The spent match was discarded.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Captain Tower said at last. He puffed, letting the thick smoke eddy from his lips. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who aren’t going to cry into their beer just because Jerry Capp went and got killed. Any one of them might have done it, and with reason. Still, our job is to find that someone. And unless we have something else to go on, we have to use what little we have — which is a beard and a red lumber jacket and a pair of sunglasses.” He looked at Reardon steadily. “Because if we don’t have those, what do we have?”
“Not very much,” Reardon admitted. “Of course, we all know Capp had enemies, but the question is also which particular enemy did Capp get exceptionally riled up recently? After all, he’s been a bad boy for a long time, and nobody knocked him off until tonight.”
“There’s always that first time,” Captain Tower said drily. “And as for enemies, they probably include half of San Francisco, or at least those who knew him or did business with him. His family hated his guts. His father died years ago, but his brothers say they never heard of Jerry, and his mother told me that as far as she’s concerned, Jerry died when he went into the rackets.”
“We’ll still have to check out his enemies,” Reardon said. He sounded a bit unhappy at the size of the chore. “Even if we get something, though, it won’t be easy to hang it on anyone. With the outfit that guy was wearing, any identification in the lineup could be thrown out the window in five minutes by a first-year law student.”
Captain Tower looked at him evenly.
“Look, Jim. I think you’re making too much of a thing out of this disguise bit, and the beard and mustache thing. Even if the beard and mustache were real he could have shaved them off five minutes after he left the bar. But the lumber jacket and the cap are something else again. It isn’t as easy to get rid of clothing as some people think.”
“I know it, Captain. I’m having men search the immediate vicinity right now, but I’ll have a special put on the air for the men all over town to be looking for the jacket and cap. And the knife and glasses, too. And I’ll talk to the Department of Sanitation in the morning; have their trucks report any lumber jacket they might get.” He paused, thinking. “And just for the hell of it, I’ll do a check on stores that sell masks and other costume stuff. See if I can come up with anything on that beard. If it was fake, it had to come from someplace.”
Captain Tower nodded. “It’s not a bad idea. And don’t forget the Goodwill Industries and the Salvation Army on that jacket and cap. Dumping the clothes in one of their receptacles on the street wouldn’t be a bad way to duck the stuff. Or to try to.”
“Yes, sir.” Reardon was taking notes. “And I’ll talk to Dutch Smarth on the Examiner. He might get some mileage out of an article about the problems criminals face getting rid of unwanted clothing. He’s doing a crime series; he could use this lumber jacket as an example. He’d be glad to do it, I’m sure, and maybe we can get half of San Francisco looking for it.” He looked up from his pad, smiling briefly. “If the guy isn’t wearing it to work tomorrow...”
“There’s always that.” Captain Tower wiped ash from his cigar. “Well—”
Reardon recognized that the captain was breaking up the conference for the evening. He tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket and got to his feet, reaching for his raincoat. Bed would feel good tonight, even though he knew it would have felt better with Jan there. May she be having fun with Gabriella, he thought with sudden bitterness; may they both be sitting there getting looped on grape juice! The thought was father to another; he hesitated and then spoke.
“Captain—”
“Yes, Jim?”
“I—” He stopped. To report Bennett would probably make him a fink in everyone’s eyes, he thought; probably even his own. And definitely in the eyes of Captain Tower. Still, that was the captain’s privilege; his own responsibility was to the organization as a whole, and not to any particular member of it.
“What is it, Jim?”
Reardon took a deep breath. “Captain, when Dondero and I got to that tavern tonight, Bennett was out in front, moving people along. He’d been drinking. You could smell him a block away. I don’t know if any of the people he was moving along noticed it — down there most of them are pretty well crocked a lot of the time, too — but...” He shrugged unhappily. “I thought it ought to be reported, anyway.”
“Are you saying you think he took a drink at that bar he was investigating a murder in?”
“No, sir. In fact I’d say he didn’t. I think he was probably in that john at that gas station taking it, but where he took the drink or drinks isn’t the point, Captain. He drives a patrol car. If he gets in an accident, or, even worse, tries to make an arrest with noticeable liquor on his breath—” He stopped.
Captain Tower put his cigar in the ashtray and reached for a pencil, beginning to twiddle it idly. For several moments he looked at the pencil and then tossed it aside. He looked up.
“Jim,” he said slowly, “if you tell me Bennett has been drinking, I’ve got to believe you, but I can say he never was a drinker. Tom’s a religious man and he’s been on the force for thirty-two years. We started together when you were probably just a youngster. If he’d have been interested, I expect he could have been sitting where I’m sitting now, or where you’ll probably be sitting long before you’re anywhere near his age. The reason he wasn’t interested was because he put his church and his family ahead of his job, and I’m not sure he was wrong. Still, his record is one I’d be happy to have — four individual citations, wounded in the line of duty twice.”